


all the things yet to come are the things that have passed

by lesbianbettycooper



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s08e06 The Iron Throne, Slice of Life, Snippets, theyre gay!! and theyre happy! love that for them!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 12:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18894640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianbettycooper/pseuds/lesbianbettycooper
Summary: Sansa can only watch her in slight awe; when they were younger, it was Jeyne who always felt as if Sansa’s presence was a blessing to her, now, as a queen, Sansa finds their every moment together precious.or; post-finale starks get to be happy and gay...........





	all the things yet to come are the things that have passed

**Author's Note:**

> title from wasteland, baby! by hozier (btw love that practically all of my fics are named aftr hozier lyrics kjdfhskjdhsfk)
> 
> where has jeyne been? idk! elia too? idk either! just go with it!

 

***

 

**SANSA**

 

Jeyne wears a crown of snow atop her brown hair. Her braids decorated with winter flowers and the fine white powder of the North.

 

She shakes her head out, a smile curling slightly on her lips as her curls swing haphazardly around her head. Sansa can only watch her in slight awe; when they were younger, it was Jeyne who always felt as if Sansa’s presence was a blessing to her, now, as a queen, Sansa finds their every moment together precious.

 

Though, Jeyne’s smiles are fleeting, like every time something good happens, memories of the bad rush to mind instead, memories of King’s Landing and the Bolton’s, the Dragons and the Dead. This one stays a moment longer, she’s too preoccupied to notice and let it drop.

 

Her face seems brighter than Sansa’s ever seen it outside of the privacy of their rooms. She looks up at Sansa, a fair deal shorter than the Queen in the North. Snowflakes gather on Jeyne’s eyelashes - melting against her warm skin — and the cold turns her broad nose red — makes her rub at it with a double-gloved hand. Sansa thinks she looks ethereal - like a God of Old cast down to live amongst her subjects, graceful and kind and smart and just.

 

Jeyne mutters quietly to her queen - her voice in a habit of whispering that’s proven difficult to rectify. She swings their hands back and forth only slightly as they make their way through Winterfell’s courtyard.

 

Sansa squeezes her hand a little tighter, pulls her just a little closer. She doesn’t wish to ever lose Jeyne again.

 

 

***

 

**JON**

 

Tormund sits beside him. His hair seemingly redder in the firelight; his skin growing warm and red from the lack of distance from the burning wood. Jon lazes next to him, half leaning against him; he smiles around his venison. The cold bites at his ears but Jon is used to it by now.

 

Tormund’s telling some boisterous story about wolves and bears and lions. He speaks softly of dragons being slain and boasts of fish making their way upstream, fashioning themselves kings and queens. He sensationalises each and every battle they fought and, to Jon’s horror, claims to have bedded a wolf.

 

Their people around them — children mostly, most others have grown tired of Tormund’s tall tales already — listen enraptured by their plights; Jon listens mostly to the phrases he uses, bursting into laughter while the rest of Tormund’s audience is tense. Tormund has a way with words, rough and harsh but enchanting and mystical too. He speaks like a bard, twisting terms in the most pleasing of absurdist ways.

 

As he speaks, one of his hands flies around him - waving right to left and up and down, gesturing wildly; his grasp on his (rapidly diminishing) ale precarious. His other hand is wrapped tight around Jon’s own, a comforting heat in the cold; soft and sweet to distract from his loud, brash words.

 

And Jon leans further into him, finds a comfort that he’s rarely ever known. Snow falls around them but Jon just feels warm.

 

 

***

 

**ARYA**

 

Elia lays flat on the beach, her shirt thin enough that she must feel the searing hot sand against her back. She lazes in the sun; Arya imagines it must remind her of Dorne.

 

Elia’s loud and flirty and she makes Arya smile more than she has in years; she makes her scared to keep going west, scared of what they’ll find if they even live.

 

Elia sits up slightly, grins up at the sky; her eyes darting slightly to Arya beside her. She bites into a foreign fruit, juice dripping down her chin. Arya almost leans across to wipe it but she refrains, looks out at the ocean instead.

 

A hand moves in front of her eyes, brown fingers curled around the bright pink fruit. Arya’s eyes travel the long length of Elia’s arm slowly, almost unnecessarily so. She’s lean and muscled, and she has a soft smile on her face. It’s softer than Arya’s seen her wear maybe, ever; not mocking, or smirking, or too wide, just… a smile. A smile meant only for Arya.

 

Arya grabs the fruit and takes a bite out of it, wincing at the sourness; Elia giggles beside her, sitting up fully. She rests her knee against Arya’s own, just barely, just enough that Arya can discern Elia’s body heat from the heat of the beach; she plays with some sand in front of her, uncaring of the way it sticks to her juice covered fingers.

 

They’ll sail farther west in a few days time, Arya announced it herself a week earlier, but she’d stay here forever if that’s what Elia wanted.

 

She rests her knee against Elia’s just a little heavier; places one of her hands in the sand beside her, their fingers touching slightly. Arya feels less like No One every day.

 

 

***

 

**BRAN**

 

Ser Podrick shows him through the Red Keep as it’s painstakingly rebuilt. Bran’s seen it all before — he watched as the first stone was laid — but he lets Podrick push his chair through dusty corridors and half-charred rooms anyway.

 

Pod tells him stories as they walk, stories of his time in the keep and tales he’s heard from others too. Winding tales that stem from truth and ones based solely on fiction. Bran has heard them already — was retroactively _there_ for each and every true one — still he says nothing; only enjoys the quiet, certain way Ser Podrick has come to speak.

 

Podrick stops sometimes, walks around Bran’s chair with a glint in his eye and stands still for a few moments. Occasionally, he shakes his head in disbelief — whether it’s in devastation or fondness is always a little unclear to Bran — before taking hold of the wheelchair once again.

 

Bran watches Podrick’s face curiously — the movement of his lips and the fluttering of his eyes — more often than not. Easy to do so for Ser Podrick always keeps quite close. His hands stay wrapped around the handles of Bran’s chair, sometimes absentmindedly straying to Bran’s shoulder.

 

He curls his own hand around Ser Podrick’s sometimes too. His presence makes him forget that he’s a king now - not forget, Bran doesn’t forget anything, but it makes him feel more… human.

 

It warms him; makes him a little more man than memories, a little more wolf than raven.

 

***

**Author's Note:**

> i have very few strong feelings about that finale besides the fact that the starks deserve everything!!!! and if gay love is everything well................ oprah-hands.gif
> 
> anyways! skjhdskfjh i wanted to write more but my brain no worky. so please comment and kudos! i really appreciate it!!


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